Had Enough? Bomb Your Bully Inner Critic

Massaging self-compassion, I wrote this letter to my nemesis —Poindexter, inner critic dude. Duckin’ the S.O.B. didn’t work. Lecturing me failed. It occurred to me this guy is a classic bully. So I delivered an in-yoe-face letter. Writing by hand reinforces. Result: for that moment, I bombed his lil buns on away from me! That note, combined with other tricks —all detailed below— schooled me: thoughts may float in without invitation, but this woman chooses which ones to surf!

Overview of this Article

This page opens with my letter to Poindexter, and closes with relevant Resources. Poindexter slapped me until I learned to massage compassion, turning its power on me. That was then. While I still don’t welcome Poindexter, I expect him. And I’ve conjured assorted tools to defang him.

Grammar niceties? Puhleeeease! Substance rules, not form. No cussin’ on this page though, a direct result of Mom’s old-school training.

Yo Poindexter,

I comprehend your superpower, two to be precise. First, you play shadow, despite all efforts to banish you —forever.

Second, like all backstabbers, you borrow bravery from a turned back. You sneak in under the radar as fear, rank castigation, and other woe-inducers.

I write to assure you: I’m on to your bag of tricks. As usual, knowledge instills the lion’s share of cure.

Inner Critic Poindexter, you use comparisons to wound my spirit.

Nope, won’t work, inner critic!

You insist everyone else is better, and I’m the lone fool. You want me to believe I’m a fraud, a poser, a know-nothing pretender. Here’s the deal, fool.

I’ve learned to treat you in the same manner as a bloviating brain-challenged poisonTician who lies persistently and consistently. That clown speaks to those anxious to swallow a gullibility pill.

That.
Ain’t.
Me.

Read: I revoked your blank check. I demand absolute beyond-a-reasonable-doubt proof of each and every one of your declarations, period. Where your words don’t fit, I acquit. Turns out, your declarations wither under the glare of scrutiny.

You inflict flea-like harassment to stall my progress.

I’ll scratch your itch, Poindexter, but MY way

I’ve noticed: you scurry around the periphery of productivity, dedicated to derailing me. While I agree to scratch your itch, I respond in Frank

You harass. I find some physical item within view, focusing with intensity. I might create a mental story about the folks who created the comfy chair in which I sit. Or, I may count the varying hues and colors peeking in from the window showcasing my tree-lined street. The technique gifts relaxation throughout my body, then permeates my spirit. Translation: your muscles shrivel.

In short, you lose center stage. I no longer focus on you, knocking my head against the brick wall of unringing a bell. Experience confirms: the lack of center stage forms your kryptonite. Indeed, you are—first and foremost—a punk,Merriam-Webster‘s shorthand for a “petty gangster, hoodlum, or ruffian.” You can’t handle being ignored. Chump!

You Poindexter, simulate a maggot —crawling from graves.

The lingering gut-hole from my munchkin days after dad died, I thought, gave me nerves of steel. Yet decades later, you tested me on a near-daily basis as I played 24/7 caregiver for Mom.

Every time this Life’s greatest cheerleader failed to recognize me, you had a field day. But then her specialist expressed surprise: no hint of a bedsore appears in the 5 years of medical records amassed under my watch. Proof: Love overwhelmed my lack of medical know-how. That reality extended a shield, holding you at bay.

And then I lost her.

You accelerated into overdrive.

And. I. Lost. My. Spirit.

You had me believing I failed to do something vital, proving fatal. After all, we’re talkin’ ’bout a woman who earned her eat-o-matic nickname, Lady PacMan. Good genes — remaining a size 6 throughout her moving-around adult life, despite her ravenous appetite. Her abrupt refusal to munch spelled her doom, you thundered.

You succeeded. I believed she committed slo-mo suicide to escape my pitiful unschooled level of care.

Months passed. But when I finally peeked out from that dark cloud, I absorbed one salient fact —you grasp ANYthing as a weapon to conquer. My psyche, at long last, accepted what all told me: loss of appetite constitutes the last hallmark of severe dementia. On the day objective and rational thinking returned, the seeds of my recovery took root.

Buried emotion — wounds too deep for tear ducts to touch— left me ripe for your odious touch. But here’s the thing, Poindexter: I survived one of the deepest cuts Life thrusts into the heart. Net result: you’re mojo lost its punch, sucka!

Mr. Inner Critic, get this → you ain’t &%#@!. Like the fake friend wedded to duplicity rather than love, you lack common decency. You stand unworthy of the great importance I unwittingly assigned to you. You’re a coward, insisting on drive-by attacks.

Guess what, Pointy baby: Self-Compassion gifts its own bag of tricks!

You’ve trained me. Maintaining a sitting-duck posture fuels you. Fighting back, in my own special way, drains your tank. Like all bullies, you choke when confronted!

Resilience, you SunnuvaWitch

I. Can. / Will. Climb. Back.

G’on, dude, gimme your best shot. We both know you’ve gut-punched my a– to the canvas on more than one occasion. But your ThrillaInMeKilla routine won only a few rounds.

I bounced up off that canvas, courtesy of my fat round derrière —complete with an Ali uppercut to your throat and a Frazier nose-flattening punch dead center in your hideous face. I destroyed your ability to breathe with ease in my mighty presence. (Yeah, I said it!) I hobbled your thrill in speaking pure unmitigated nonsense. Dude, I know what time it is! Oprah said it best: yoe time is up!

Eschewing your words, I played Energizer Bunny ’til pretense strolled into the factual realm. I faked it til I made it. How ya like me now, Poindexter?

Bottom-line: you can pause me, but your days of skidmarking Da Kidd live only in my rear-view mirror. The Universe gifts a subtle reminder every time I slide into the driver’s seat of my birdmobile: the windshield dwarfs the side and rear views — for a reason. Shout out to my magnificent Creator!

10-year old birdmobile, WITH CarPlay! Yeah babeeeeeee!

Silly rabbit, Emotional Intelligence rules.

You: a punch. Me: a passion. No contest!

Your “dummy!” routine now invigorates. You persist in highlighting what I don’t (yet!) know. I’ve polished flipping that switch to my advantage.

The “For Dummies” books continue to populate best seller lists precisely because new ventures = new things to learn, new skills to master. A permanent coward, masquerading as arrogance, never touches those books. This scared-to-death woman gobbles every dang page, moving forward, despite the fear. No chains, Poindexter. These days, fear merely seasons my reasons.

I gotta learn those foreign skills awaiting me. Thank you for confirming my goal merits the dummy label. Today, I submit my Tina Turner-ized admission: ♫ rolling … rollin’ … rollin’ down the river ♫ of fear = movement, sufficient to permit one-footstep-at-a-time ascension up from the low end of the learning curve.

I “get” the Rule of Five: persistent chops of the mightiest tree brings that bad boy crashing to earth. So rock on, DuhBoy! This Lil Momma relishes the challenge of stretching into new territory, while waving BuhBye! to the increasingly distant shore of my comfort zone.

You may pack a mean punch, but GirlFriend packs a clean passion. I converted your jeers to cheers. Your words provide a security blanket, proof positive I’m poised for take off. Read: if there ain’t nothing new to learn and master, the goal ain’t worth my time.

The inner critic gets loudest when his target is poised for takeoff.

Inner Critic Dude → → Bye Felicia!

Poindexter, we both know your visits remain impervious to every door I think I’ve locked. Makes no diff, son! I’ve earned and learned the fine art of compassion, extending from me to me.

When you speak, a knee-jerk internal question kicks my senses: would I tolerate the words if directed to a friend? The standard answer: nope! Result: I remind myself of

I kicked pride to the curb, enlisting reinforcements. A 5-star general leads my army! His name: music!

This is my goal.

My plan to achieve it.

My world.

Dude, yoe a–? Evicted!!

Yours no more,Dat writesquire woman

My Slick Trick for Conquering Inner Critic Dude

And at the end, there was/is peace

Those closest to me know: I assign nicknames to those within my inner circle. I don’t plan it. I may be washing dishes, running ’round a (seriously loooong) country block, or… Whatever, the term of endearment pops, then nestles within my being.

Here’s something no one, not even hubby, knows —til now. (Yes, hubs reads this blog, cuz, well, love.) An old-school R&B tune also attaches. I hear it when thoughts of the loved one hit my brain, or I see the person approaching. Hey, what is a loved one without tailored background music? ♫ 🤗 ♫

Pointy, you, of course, refute the “love” requisite. But let’s face it. You appear on my mind’s doorstep with such dastardly regularity, you too merit a tune. In fact, with a nod toward your extreme persistence as well as your twin BFFs —Murphy’s Law and sneakiness— I assigned three tunes.

No self-lecture. No woulda, shoulda, coulda. No reach for a list of affirmations. No homminna homminna. I employ a decades-beloved joyful obsession —old-school music— to restore my senses which, in turn, mutes you, Poindexter. As you’ve observed, this stands as the singular technique —for me— conjuring a 100% success rate.

When I feel a need for that good ole churchvibe:

♫ We all make mistakes

You might fall on your face

Don’t ever give up!

I’d rather stand tall

Than live on my knees

‘Cause I am a conqueror

And I won’t accept defeat

Try telling me no

One thing about me

Is I am a conqueror ♫

When I wanna blast you with myresolve:

♫ Ten times or more, yes, I’ve walked out that door

Get this into your head, there’ll be no more

Didn’t I blow your mind this time, didn’t I

Didn’t I blow your mind this time, didn’t I

Yes sir ♫

Dancin’ away Poindexter, the (now-muted) inner critic

When hips wanna sway as my mouth does its say, I indulge a 💃🏾 boogie 💃🏾 party:

Thoughts about Self-Compassion, the Inner Critic, and the Comfort Zone

Listen & Learn: Self-Compassion, Conquering Fear, & the Inner Critic

✦︎ Your Inner Critic Is A Big Jerk — Danielle Krysa

TEDx Brentwood College School
14m: Being bullied is awful, especially when that bully lives inside your head.

✦︎ Dancing with my inner critic — Steve Chapman

TEDx Royal Tunbridge Wells
13m: Shining a light on the inner critic.

✦︎ The Critical Inner Voice

Whiteboard Animation
5m: Learn about the inner critic leading so many of us to sabotage ourselves.

✦︎ Overcoming Bad Inner Voices

6m: Wisdom involves learning how to replace those crushing nags with more benevolent guides.

✦︎ Self Compassion — YouTube

4m: How to tame the inner critic’s voice

Call to Action

The good stuff lives beyond the comfort zone. Moving from here to there mandates navigating the treacherous waters of fear, where Poindexter wears the captain’s hat. Understand that fact. Embrace it. Then massage to convert this enemy into a buddy.

Adopt the Rule of Five and the 5-Whys Technique. Buffer that knowledge with a joyful obsession. You’ll be hard-pressed to pinpoint a more efficient and comprehensive group of friends as you continue to strive …